


If You Were Home

by Val_Creative



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Bill Denbrough, Adult Mike Hanlon, Alternate Canon, Bill Denbrough Loves Mike Hanlon, Derry (Stephen King), Derry Cemetery (Stephen King), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mike Hanlon Deserves Love, Mike Hanlon Deserves Nice Things, Mike Hanlon Loves Bill Denbrough, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Religion, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29611413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Mike visits his parents' graves after defeating IT, leaving with Bill and seeking comfort.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13
Collections: Black Is Beautiful 2021





	If You Were Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highsmith (quimtessence)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/gifts).



> ( **WARNING** : Brief mention of past racial discrimination for a side character and of children in organized religion.)
> 
> There's never been enough Hanbrough in this fandom. -tosses my fic into the void- _bone apple tea_ ✨🤏

*

Mike has come here plenty of times. 

One of his earliest memories of Derry, Maine had been going to Nana's funeral — everything had been artificiality bright in the church, and Mike didn't understand why his Nana Shirley had on her pearls and why she didn't sit up from her opened casket.

Uncle Howard roughly tugged on Mike's ear when Mike asked this. _You hush up. Don't say that nonsense to anybody else._

He finds a patch of wilted, yellowed grass in Derry Cemetery and plants a knee into the soil. Not too far from the opened wrought-iron gates, what remains of a nearby white picket-fence church fades into sunset shadows. It's long been abandoned.

Jessica Hanlon took her son every Sunday morning to Grace Baptist Church from infancy to high school. She had him learn to read for the first time through pamphlets and scripture, and was delighted to see Mike's interest in memorizing his books. According to Uncle Phil, she could be found in the pews by herself, bouncing a tiny, smiling Mike in her lap and hugging him. 

Nobody sat with her. Nobody greeted her or made eye-contact and told her she was beautiful unless they were the Hanlons.

(Mike isn't sure if it was IT targeting her for being a young Black woman or IT fed into racial discrimination already there.)

Mike's father never came along. He didn't _see the point_ and busied himself with his amateur historian paperwork. Little did Mike know it was William Hanlon's _obsession_ to document IT wherever it showed up and caused endless death and destruction.

"We did it…" Mike rasps, staring forlornly at his parents' gravestones. "Pop, I got IT… nobody's gotta die anymore…" 

His dark brown hands tremble, clasped together and draped over his other raised knee.

The electrical fire — of course Mike remembers. He barely made out. His parents' screams of agony and the odor of newly burning flush haunts Mike to this day, but it's not _all_ they were. Mike remembers Jessica Hanlon's low, deep singing voice, and the warmth of her touch. William Hanlon used to chase a gleeful Mike across the farmlands, pretending to roar and snarl.

He appreciates Leroy Hanlon's stories, and how brilliantly they shine in Mike's head, but he doesn't need to rely on them.

"I'm sorry it took so long to… to fight for you and Momma…"

"Mikey, hey," Bill whispers, touching his shoulder. "I'm gonna start the car and see if the battery is still fritzing. Take your time."

_Bill…_

It takes a long and profound moment for Mike to pull himself together. He wipes off his face with both of his forearms, inhaling noisily. Too much tears and snot. "It's getting late anyway," he answers. "S'alright." Mike rises to his feet slowly, his legs aching. 

Bill watches him looking away from the headstones. His pale blue eyes narrow with concern.

 _Bill, Bill Denbrough_ — no longer plastered in dirt and slime and blood from the Neibolt House plummeting around them. Mike tasted the hot, bitter ashes inside his mouth. They ran out and washed themselves off in the quarry, along with the other Losers. It felt like _a ritual cleansing_. Mike felt new on the outside and triumphant inside. The curse had lifted.

He couldn't convince himself to let go of Bill's hand, once they were alone in the Derry Townhouse. Mike needed to be grounded. Needed Bill and didn't know how to tell him. Eventually, Bill pulled away to shower off the filthy, mildewy water.

(It was the fear of losing each other and their friends. Mike sends up a prayer of gratitude about surviving the worst of IT.)

The sunset shadows cast over Bill. He widens a grin, opening his arm, and Mike walks into it. Bill's arms suddenly latch around him, tightening. Bill changed into a flannel shirt before they drove out to the local cemetery. A pale blue color like Bill's irises. 

Mike finds himself rocking a little, side-to-side, gently with Bill. His eyelids shut. 

Bill's hand lightly claps Mike on the back. 

Neither of them want to let go.

(Trying to survive IT's final battle nearly killed them both. Mike never wants to lose another person he loves.)

"Let's get outta here," Mike tells him, gripping onto Bill's hand, leading back to his station wagon. He's yet to pack up. Mike doesn't even know if he wants to leave Derry. Not just yet. If there's a whole week without an incident — Mike's ready.

Bill shifts their fingers, gazing over Mike in rueful intention. Mike realizes there's a tear gleaming on Bill's jaw.

"Mikey…"

"Thanks for coming out here with me," Mike says quietly, conversationally, offering a smile before he cups Bill's jaw. His thumb sweeps up over the corner of Bill's mouth. Bill laughs, touching shyly over Mike's hand. "It means a lot, Bill…"

"You _nn_ -know I love _yu-yu_ -you, man…"

Before there's frustration about the nervous stutter, Mike leans in. 

He loves Bill, too. There's never been a doubt for Mike — he's had no opportunity to tell Bill. No plan. He's been wanting to do this since Mike saw Bill in the Jade of the Orient after twenty-seven years, and then, he didn't. Feeling like a coward.

Mike's mouth presses flush against Bill's lips becoming a little 'O' of understanding. A pleasant shiver overwhelms him. Mike cups the other man's face, deepening the kiss by opening his mouth for Bill's lips to re-cover his. He wonders if Bill is only going along with this up until Bill inhales audibly, sharply against Mike's lips, groaning and burrowing his fingertips into Mike's shirt.

It's a hint of nicotine inside Bill's mouth opening for him, and Mike knows he's been trying to hide the smoking habit. When they were kids, it was always Bill, Beverly, and Richie smoking on the swings, elbowing each other and flicking tobacco-ends.

Bill's shoulders thud onto the brown wood-grain station wagon.

_"Should we be doing this here…?"_

"Probably not," Mike whispers, grinning toothily and admiring Bill's kiss-puffy mouth.

_"Guh-great…"_

Bill laughs again, uneasy but trusting when Mike's hands grip onto his hips, holding him harder against the side of Mike's car.

It's a Sunday, and he's got something — _someone_ — to worship on hands and knees. 

(If that's alright by Bill.)

*


End file.
